


always gonna be mine

by elisela



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Derek/OMC mentioned, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Stiles/OFC mentioned, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29448639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisela/pseuds/elisela
Summary: “I hate to cut this short, but I have to get home,” he says apologetically, and Stiles is surprised to see it’s just after two in the morning when he checks his phone.“I don’t think an eight hour date is short by anyone’s standards,” he says, glancing over at Derek and trying to read his reaction, but Derek’s face is too hidden in shadows. “Kinda crazy that we both grew up in Beacon Hills and it took moving to New York to meet you,” he says, slowing down when they get to the door of his building.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 19
Kudos: 316
Collections: Sterek Valentine Week





	always gonna be mine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 7 of Sterek Valentine Week: Fate and this is nothing like what I meant to write but um ... we love fluff and soft Derek in this house and I make no apologies okay bye.

“I knew this was a mistake,” Samantha says, looking everywhere but Stiles. He watches as her eyes flicker around the restaurant before her gaze lands on his wine glass and she sighs. There’s the deep pressure of resignation in his chest—not hurt, not embarrassment, just the bone-deep knowledge that once again, he’s done exactly the wrong thing. “I’m sorry, Stiles, I just—this was just fun for me. I’m sorry. I should go.”

 _Ah_ , he thinks, nodding numbly as he watches her gather her things to leave, the curious eyes of other restaurant patrons following her movements, _there’s the embarrassment_.

He’s going to kill Jackson. He’d been perfectly happy with the friends(ish)-with-benefits arrangement they’d had going on, and he’d made an idle comment about how maybe—possibly—he could see it being more one day, and Jackson had jumped all over him to give it a shot.

Well. Shot very publicly deflected.

He wonders, briefly, if he hadn’t chosen today of all day—fucking Valentine’s day, what is _wrong_ with him—to go for it, if she would have been more receptive. Doubtful, but it’ll turn into an obsession later, when he’s three or four drinks in and ranting on the phone to his best friend. Except Jackson won’t answer, because he’s with Ethan, and Stiles is alone, alone, alone.

The waiter chooses that moment to bring the appetizer out—mussels and clams, the earthy tang of garlic preceding it—with a commiserating look, setting the steaming bowl down gently in front of him. “Sir, I couldn’t help but overhear; is there anything I can do for you?”

“Don’t suppose you get a break and want to eat,” he says, and she smiles gently at him. “I’m—I’ll be good. Thank you. Maybe cancel her order if it’s possible.”

“Of course,” she says, and on her next pass by, she slides a deep red drink onto the table for him with a wink. He can smell the whiskey even with the addition of the mixers and for a second he hesitates, the scent wrapped in too many memories of life after his mother’s passing, but free is free and Stiles dismisses his vague concerns after just a moment and takes a long drink--

And almost spits it out when he meets the gaze of the man at the table across from him. He’s probably gawking. He’s pretty sure his mouth is parted slightly as he takes in the man’s high cheekbones, just visible above his dark, close-cropped beard, broad shoulders that draw Stiles’ gaze right to his collarbone and oh dear God, the chest hair that’s just peeking out of his shirt. When he jerks his eyes back up, he sees the man is still staring at him, but there’s a flush to his cheeks in the low light of the restaurant now, and his eyes seem to glow golden in the candlelight. 

Then he hears what the man’s date is saying to him, and he almost chokes on nothing but air. 

“That’s not a mess I’m interested in, but I could be persuaded to have a little fun with you after dinner.”

Stiles is out of his seat before he even realizes what he’s doing, because apparently one humiliating public rejection wasn’t enough for him. God knows he’s not against casual sex, and he’s had plenty of dates that ended at that point despite knowing there was no chance at a relationship, but there was something about the tone that got to him, the small flinch on the guy’s face when he heard the word _mess_ that pushed at his gut, made him want to soothe the hurt, to run on instinct. 

So he does, and he braces himself for disaster. 

“Hey,” he says, jamming his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t do anything stupid like touch, “I couldn’t help but notice that you could really do better than this asshole. Wanna have dinner with me?”

There’s a scoff from the other side of the table and the beginning of an insult—not that Stiles cares, he’s friends with Jackson, he’s heard them all—but he just keeps his focus on the guy in front of him and is more than a little dumbfounded when the guy nods once and says yes, grabbing a leather jacket off the back of his chair before joining Stiles at his table. 

They just stare at each other for a moment, and Stiles realizes he had barely given a thought to asking a complete stranger to sit with him, much less what to do on the off-chance said stranger accepted, and now he’s at a loss. There’s a reason he doesn’t date much; he’s always preferred to know a person first, to have a friendship to fall back on, to know the other person knows what they’re getting into. And while he’s perfectly fine with the whole getting-to-know-you thing, this guy hadn’t actually asked to get to know Stiles, and in the middle of a fancy restaurant he’s only own because Jackson got him a reservation is not his preferred location for such activities. 

“Here,” he says abruptly, pushing the appetizer to the middle of the table, “we were supposed to share this so—are you allergic to seafood?” 

“No,” the guy says, and he hesitates for only a moment before reaching for a fork. “I’m Derek, by the way. Thank you for—the invitation. I appreciate it.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, waving his own fork in the air in an aborted motion to gesture around the table, “you’re welcome. Thanks for agreeing, I’m sure you saw what happened with my, uh, not-date, so—” he almost says they’re just doing each other a favor, but the words feel wrong in his mouth, and he doesn’t want to wave away the possibility of a date so soon. “I’m Stiles,” he says instead, and feels his mouth quirk into a grin when Derek’s brow furrows. “Yes, it’s a nickname, my given one is a mouthful and I haven’t heard since I was a kid so who knows if I can even say it correctly anymore. Besides,” he says, “everyone knows you shouldn’t give your true name, it holds too much power.”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up with a look of recognition, and Stiles wonders suddenly if the gold in his eyes was really a trick of the candlelight after all. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have accepted your gift of food,” he says lightly, and grins as he reaches for the salt and pours a little in his hand. “Pass your test?”

“That’s never been proven,” Stiles says, clearly a little too loudly when he catches the attention of other diners. He clears his throat and lowers his voice, grinning sheepishly at Derek. 

“I can assure you it has,” Derek says, and when Stiles opens his mouth he gives a slight shake of his head; the waitress walks up to them a moment later with two plates in her hand. 

“I have to say, it’s an upgrade for both of you,” she says, and then she gives them both a second glance and grins a little wider. “Enjoy.”

Stiles swears he feels himself flush to the tips of his toes, but Derek just gives him one more considering look and says, “I agree,” before twirling his fork into a pile of spaghetti. “I think I’ve heard of you,” he adds after a moment. “Your name—I can’t imagine there are many people calling themselves Stiles—I just can’t think of where I heard it. Do you go to NYU?”

“Columbia, I’m in the graduate program,” he says. There’s a Derek on the third floor of his building, but Derek shakes his head and tells him he lives in Williamsburg, and they trade names back and forth of people they may have in common until they run out and Stiles shrugs. “My buddy Scott knows a Derek, but he’s out in California—”

“McCall,” Derek says, and there’s a pleased look on his face. “I knew you were familiar—you’re the one that was with him when—my uncle—”

“Derek _Hale_ ,” he says, and then, “holy crap, I used to play around your house in the summer; you had that treehouse that was—uh, I might have done some trespassing as a child. Teenager,” he amends when Derek looks like he’s about to laugh. “Sorry. What happened to your uncle, anyway? Scott said you two email sometimes about—your shared interests,” he says, cringing. He’s managed to keep the werewolf thing a secret for almost a decade; the last thing he needs is to burst out with it in the middle of a crowded restaurant. 

Derek updates him over dinner—Stiles has always been more interested in the supernatural than Scott, but Scott is dead set against involving Stiles in anything having to do with that part of his life. All he knew is that Scott was bit, disappeared with Talia Hale for a few months during their sophomore year of high school, and came back a little more badass than before. It’s nice to finally learn that Peter Hale is once again sane (“as he ever was,” Derek says drily, and Stiles is dying to know the stories behind that comment) and that the Hales are happy out in New York—

“We go back, sometimes,” Derek says. “For Christmas, usually. I think—you must have spent a lot of time in that treehouse when you were a teenager. When you sat down earlier, you were … familiar. I couldn’t place it, I figured it was just something that triggered a memory, but I think that memory might have been you. Laura always put up ‘keep out’ signs, you know, because we could tell you had been there.”

Stiles feels himself flush again. He knows scent is important; Scott complains about him smelling like Jackson enough whenever he makes the trip back home to have knocked that in his head. “Sorry, dude,” he says, grimacing, but Derek shakes his head quickly.

“No, I’m not trying to say—” he stops, clearly frustrated, and Stiles realizes suddenly that he’s more than a little fascinated by Derek, by his speech and mannerisms, the way he tries to carefully construct a thought before speaking, so unlike himself. “It was like nostalgia,” Derek says finally, rubbing his thumb against the empty wine glass he’d picked up. “It was comforting.”

He knows perfectly well that Derek can hear the way his heart stutters, and he waits for it to be mentioned, but Derek just gives him a small smile and ducks his head down before taking another bite of his food. It’s not often that Stiles is at a loss for words, but that, apparently, does it, and he casts around for something to say only to end up blurting out, “do you want to do something after this? We could—see a movie, or, or—go ice skating. Something. Um.”

The sad thing is he can’t even pretend to himself that he’s normally much smoother than this, but Derek just looks up at him and nods. “I can’t ice skate,” he says, “but we’re close to the park; we could walk around. I always miss the preserve when we’re in the city. It helps.”

So that’s what they do; Stiles finds it easier to talk once they’re out of the restaurant, words coming easier as they meander down random paths in Central Park. He and Derek trade stories about their childhood before moving onto college, and Stiles barely registers when Derek leads them out of the north side of the park and towards Columbia. 

“I hate to cut this short, but I have to get home,” he says apologetically, and Stiles is surprised to see it’s just after two in the morning when he checks his phone. 

“I don’t think an eight hour date is short by anyone’s standards,” he says, glancing over at Derek and trying to read his reaction, but Derek’s face is too hidden in shadows. “Kinda crazy that we both grew up in Beacon Hills and it took moving to New York to meet you,” he says, slowing down when they get to the door of his building. Derek is still quiet, but he meets Stiles’ gaze, and Stiles steps into his space, crowds against him, slow enough that Derek could move if he wanted to before he kisses him, hand coming up to cup the back of his neck.

He feels Derek breathe in against his lips before he presses back, drawing Stiles even closer with a hand on his hip, and when they break apart, Derek rests his forehead against Stiles’. 

“Let me give you my number,” Stiles says, and he feels his heart drop to his stomach when Derek moves back and looks away from him. He might not be the greatest at reading body language and intent at times, but there’s no way he misread the entire night, and he has no clue how to react to this new hesitancy. “Or—not,” he says, taking a step back himself. “We can just—sure. Yeah. Uh, it was nice to meet you,” he says, fumbling for his keys in his pocket.

“Stiles,” Derek says quietly, and he’s stopped by the hand on his wrist, Derek’s fingers closing around him easily. “There’s something I should tell you.”

He stops what he’s doing and waits, and when Derek doesn’t say anything, raises an eyebrow. “What could possibly be harder to tell me than the whole lunar lunacy thing?” he asks, and Derek snorts before he shakes his head.

“The mess that Anthony didn’t want to get into,” Derek says, and Stiles realizes that he’d completely forgotten that he didn’t start out this night with Derek. “He meant—I have a son. James. He’s four. It didn’t seem fair to set up another date—I should have told you—”

Stiles bites down on all his questions and nods, twisting his arm to shake Derek’s hand off his wrist before catching it and squeezing his fingers. “I don’t have a lot of experience with kids,” he admits, and amends, “okay, any. I don’t have any experience with kids. In health class my junior year we had to carry around flour bags and not that I am in any way comparing your experience as a single—I hope—father to—you know what, I’m just going to stop. I don’t have any experience with kids, but I’m not like, morally opposed to them or anything—oh, fuck. Derek, I’m fine with it if you are,” he says, and clenches his free hand into a fist like that will somehow help him stop talking. “I just don’t know how to do this,” he adds. “So just—can you say something before I sound like more of an idiot?”

“I think you’re doing alright,” Derek says, and he leans in to give Stiles another quick, soft kiss. “I’ll give you my number, and you can think about it and call me if you’re still okay with it after you’ve gotten some sleep.”

“I’ll be okay with it,” Stiles says immediately, handing his phone over for Derek to input his number. “I’ll call you.”

“Just think about it,” Derek says; his fingers brush against Stiles’ as he passes the phone back, and he smiles. “Goodnight, Stiles.”

When he calls Derek the next morning, not even out of bed yet, Derek answers like he’s been waiting all night for the phone to ring.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me @ [tumblr](https://elisela.tumblr.com/post/643144037989236736/always-gonna-be-mine-elisela-teen-wolf-tv)


End file.
